


The Kindness of Friends

by fritz_winky



Series: The Companion Series [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Implied repentance through sex, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-10
Updated: 2014-02-10
Packaged: 2018-01-11 21:59:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1178424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fritz_winky/pseuds/fritz_winky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Companion piece to 01x04, "The Good Soldier."  Aramis is not himself following the events concerning Marsac and the deaths of his former friends.  Feeling unsettled by this, Porthos seeks him out one night to help drive his thoughts to something else entirely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Kindness of Friends

It has been three days since the end of Marsac, and still Aramis seems not himself.   The others have noticed, of course they have, but no one seems able to discuss it.  They watch Aramis take his meals – those that he eats, anyway – by himself, watch him take his leave the moment his presence is no longer required.  He says few words to anyone at any given time, and even his greetings to his friends seem more an obligation than sincerity.  Athos seems content to leave Aramis be, but Porthos is the first one to break his silence.

 

“It’s not right,” he says, glowering over a glass of wine.  “Aramis is supposed to be the happy one, it’s not right, him sulking around.”

 

“He’s just shot and buried an old friend.  He’ll come around in his own time.”  Athos sounds dismissive.  It’s true, in his heart he does worry, but he knows that a man’s grieving period is best left for the man himself.

 

“I’m telling you, it’s something else.”  Porthos shifts uncomfortably.  The tavern seems unusually loud tonight, but everything rubs him the wrong way right now.  “Do you remember how he was, when he first came back from the slaughter?  Confused, still on the cusp of death from his wounds and the cold, couldn’t get any sense from him.  Even then when he’d shunned away everyone else, he still wanted us.”

 

“Maybe it’s just the memory of it all?” offers d’Artagnan.  He feels the discomfort, too.  He’s admired Aramis from the start and this turn-around upsets him, but he doesn’t know him half as well as the other two. 

 

“Yes, Porthos, listen to d’Artagnan.  For once, the boy has some sense.”

 

“He thinks we’ve abandoned him.”  The words leave Porthos’ mouth and the three sit there, and Porthos feels only slightly better for having said what’s been on his mind.  “We should have been more support for him.”

 

Athos slowly puts down his cup and looks across the table at his fellow musketeer.  “We have duties, Aramis can’t have expected us to throw those aside.  He sought closure and he found it, and now he must come to terms with it.”

 

“How many times have we not expected him to throw aside the same duties, and yet he has?”  Porthos’ voice has grown louder, and some patrons nearby shoot them wary looks.  He glances around before lowering his volume, but the anger is still there, tinting his words.  “It was our chance to return those actions and we stood by.”

 

By the way Athos sighs, it’s clear he’s done with this thread of conversation and he motions the tavern girl to bring him more wine.  D’Artagnan looks between the two, brow creased with worry and thought.  When he glances at Porthos, he finds Porthos watching him in turn, and the conversation they have without words is quick and to the point.  Porthos will go seek out Aramis and d’Artagnan will keep Athos in check.  With a nod of thanks, Porthos dons his hat and steps out into the night.

 

The walk to Aramis’ apartment is quick.  Porthos knows the way well enough to walk it blindfolded if he had to, and he arrives as Aramis’ man, Bazin, is leaving.  Bazin admits Porthos to enter before departing for the night, and Porthos bars the door behind him, then seeks out Aramis.  The apartment is small, and so it is not hard to come across Aramis in the drawing room.  He sits at the desk with a book of some sort open before him, lips moving soundless as he reads the words.  No doubt he knows Porthos is there, yet he makes no movement to acknowledge it.  After a moment has stretched between them, Porthos clears his throat.

 

“My friend, I come to make my apologies, and to beg your forgiveness, and also to make my concern known.”

 

“I cannot guess as to why you feel the need for apologies or forgiveness,” Aramis replies.  He stands, returning his book to the small shelf.  “As for your concern, you trouble yourself for nothing, though I thank you for it all the same.”

 

“Aramis –“

 

“It’s late.  Surely your time would be better spent back at the tavern, or perhaps in bed.”

 

“Curse your lineage for making you so stubborn,” Porthos mutters to himself.  He steps further into the room and sets his hat on the desk.  “We acted poorly.  As your friends, we’re wasted.  We should have seen you needed us.  _I_ should have seen.”

 

Aramis shrugs his shoulder, but cannot bring himself to face Porthos.  “You are all musketeers.  Your loyalties are with your captain, you’ve acted how you should.” 

 

To anyone else, it would be enough, but Porthos knows Aramis too well.  He reaches out with the intention to shout some sense into the man, but once his hand catches Aramis’s arm, he softens.

 

“Aramis, you are too kind a man for your own good, sometimes, and you are also weary.  To bed with you, and it’s for the best you listen.  We all know times are dire when it’s up to _me_ to be the reasonable one of the group.”

 

At least it gets a smile out of Aramis.  A brief, fleeting smile, but a smile all the same.  Porthos chalks it up as a large victory as he nudges Aramis into the adjoining bedroom.  In silence they begin to undress – it goes unsaid that Porthos will be staying with him, a fact that Aramis is secretly thankful for.  After a moment of hesitation, Aramis strips down completely, Porthos pausing as well before following his lead.  It’s far too hot, anyway, for bedclothes, and between them there’s little left to hide.  They stretch out on the bed, too small for them to do anything but press against one another, Aramis facing the wall with his back to Porthos’ broad chest.  A sheen of sweat sticks them together, the humidity in the Parisian air mixing with their breaths and making the air muggy around them. 

 

Porthos dozes now and then, his eyes closing for a few minutes at a time before blinking back awake.  He feels obliged to remain vigilante, to make sure Aramis is resting, though he can tell by the tension in the other man’s body that Aramis has yet to allow himself the pleasure of sleep.  Porthos sighs.  It is hard for him to maintain his patience, but even as he opens his mouth to finally snap – lightly – at his bedfellow, Aramis twists around to press his nose to Porthos’s neck.

 

“Forgive me, friend,” he breathes, voice hot against already warm skin, “you come here to ask me to pardon you, yet it is I who should be making my apologies.”  Aramis feels Porthos frown, so he continues to speak, words falling out in a sleep-deprived jumble, worried he’ll lose his nerve before it’s all said.  “It is true that these last five years I’ve been haunted by questions.  It is something I have learned to live with.  All men have their demons, mine are not any different.  And yet when Marsac came with offerings of truth and justice, how was I to deny myself this?  I was lured by my loyalty, by the life I owed him, and I forgot who I am.”

 

“You are a fool,” rumbles Porthos, his voice low and as soft as Porthos can manage to make it.  He means it lightly, of course, but he sometimes forgets that underneath the deadly skill and apparent inability to be fazed, Aramis is a gentler soul than he or Athos.  He smoothes his larger hand down Aramis’s back, hoping somehow to soothe him.  “Any man who blames you for your actions is dishonest.  In your shoes, we would have done no less, and with less grace, I reckon.”

 

“Yet I feel ashamed nonetheless.”  Aramis sighs.  He nudges his nose against Porthos’ throat.  “I meant when I said that you all behaved honourably, standing by Treville as you had.  If I let myself admit that I was hurt and felt pushed away, it would be misplaced blame, and I can’t take the burden of that guilt.  But forgive me anyway, so I can ease my mind of the worry.”

 

Porthos huffs.  It’s hard to tell if he’s amused, upset, or perhaps even offended by the admission.  He says nothing.  Instead, he continues to smooth his hands along the lean line of Aramis’ side, letting it just slip beyond his hip before trailing back up.  Aramis relaxes under the touch, relief setting in at last to learn he hasn’t done any ill damage between him and his friends.  Tipping his head up, he presses his lips to Porthos’ jaw.

 

“I think I should be almost embarrassed at how easily you manage to set my mind to rest,” Aramis teases.  He shifts back toward the wall, turning slightly on to his back, smiling into the darkness of the room as Porthos follows him.  The weight of Porthos pressed against him makes Aramis sigh again, and the sound of it leads Porthos’ mouth to his own.  The kiss is sweeter than it usually is between the two of them.  Porthos still feels protective, instinctively acting in the better interest of Aramis than himself.  Aramis seems appreciative of it.  His hand curls around the back of Porthos’ neck and he squeezes gently, coaxing him into another kiss.  They breathe in unison, hands beginning to wander, growing needier and bolder as the last of Aramis’ defenses fall.  Porthos looks up from where he’s kissing at Aramis’ neck and shakes his head.

 

“Christ, it’s hot,” he says, even as his tongue seeks out a stray rivulet of sweat that crosses his path on Aramis’ skin.

 

“It’s hot everywhere,” Aramis laughs.  It’s light, airy, but it’s a good sound to Porthos’ ears.  “And before you say anything at all, I know you hate the heat.  Open the shutters, though I doubt it will bring you any comfort.”

 

Porthos bites gently at Aramis in reprimand for his cheekiness, but dutifully clambers off the bed.  Anything is better than nothing.  And he’s glad for it, once he’s pushed open the window.  The apartment sits on the ground floor, but Aramis’ bedroom opens out to the small, secluded garden behind it, and only Aramis ever seeks solitude there.   There will be no prying eyes or interruptions, and the light from the moon reflects itself inside.  As much as Porthos takes pleasure in being able to feel his way around Aramis even without sight, he enjoys much more the sight of the other man, and it’s a lovely sight.  Aramis glistens with a layer of sweat, his hair mussed around from the pillow, sticking damply to his brow or his ear in places.  He watched Porthos unblinkingly before holding out his hand.

 

“If you’re satisfied with that, _I_ would be satisfied with you coming back to me.”

 

When Porthos laughs, the sound fills the room.  “You’re needy when you’re in a mood, you know.”  He crosses the floor in only a few strides and finds himself stretched out once more over Aramis, trailing kisses over his cheekbones and his forehead.  “Not sure I’m fond of it.”

 

Aramis merely snorts.  “Say all you like, darling mine, but know that even as you speak you’re being betrayed.”  He shifts a leg around and presses his thigh between Porthos’ legs, unable to hide the smug look that comes across his face at the sputter it gets in response.  “Really, I’m flattered.”

 

The kiss that follows is not gentle at all, full of the intention of making Aramis stop talking.  It works, but it doesn’t stop him from moving his leg to create a slight friction against Porthos’ erection.  Hoping to encourage Porthos, Aramis arches his hips and presses against Porthos in turn, making a needy sound in his throat.

 

“Like I said, not sure I’m fond of it,” Porthos repeats, gruffly, groping around at the nightstand for anything that might be of use.  His annoyance flairs up again, and Aramis merely shrugs, looking innocent for all the world.

 

“I suggest the drawing room.  It’s not as if I was expecting your company, don’t give me that face.”

 

“Tell me again why I’ve got to do everything ‘round here?” Porthos asks, even as he climbs once more from the bed.

 

Aramis does a poor job of not laughing.  “Because I’m in a fragile emotional state and it’s your duty as friend and lover to cater to my needs.  Don’t sulk so, you look ridiculous.”  He lounges back, hands behind his head as he listens to Porthos shuffling through the desk drawers for the oil that Aramis uses to keep the luster in his hair and moustache. 

 

By the time Porthos returns, his patience for teasing is gone, and in its place is that almost comedic, masculine desire that Aramis has come to crave over the years.  Aramis readily yields himself to the rough hands that move him toward the center of the bed, letting himself be positioned like he’s nothing more than a figure to be posed and moved at will.  When he feels the slicked up fingers around his entrance he shudders, his body shocked by the sudden coolness amidst the heat.  There’s no ceremony or warning as Porthos slips one finger inside.  Aramis doesn’t censor the little yelp that gives way to a pleased moan, and Porthos grins, leaning over to bite at Aramis’ ear.

 

“What would people do, if they knew you could be so easily undone?” he asks, voice little more than a harsh breath.

 

“Line up around the block, I suspect.” 

 

Porthos jerks his hand and Aramis whimpers.  It’s an old game with them, Aramis playing cheeky and cocky and Porthos reminding him who’s in charge.  In truth, Aramis loves it.  Not even Athos can own him the way Porthos can, and the thought draws a groan from Aramis’ throat that Porthos interprets as encouragement to add a second digit.

 

“Not wasting any time, I see,” grunts Aramis, bending his knees so he can dig his heels into the hard mattress. 

 

“If you could take a look at yourself right now,” Porthos replies, twisting and stretching his fingers in all the ways he knows Aramis likes most, “you wouldn’t blame me.”

 

“So flattering.”

 

“You love it.”

 

There’s no word of agreement from Aramis save for the keening sounds that Porthos is drawing from him.  By the time Porthos puts a third finger into play, Aramis’ voice has gone up a pitch, and Porthos makes an amused sound as he passes his free hand across the smaller man’s mouth.

 

“If you don’t shut up a bit, you’ll wake the neighbourhood.”  When Aramis pouts, Porthos tuts.  “Coy bastard,” he chides, “if you don’t watch it, I’ll have to turn you over, and neither of us would like that, would we?”

 

Aramis can’t argue with that.  Though, to make sure he doesn’t get too vocal, he catches Porthos’ thumb in his teeth, then wraps his lips around it.  Porthos makes a sound low in throat.  He curls his fingers until Aramis is nearly trembling and both their cocks are twitching.  Only once he draws his hand away does Aramis free his thumb, and both take the opportunity to catch what breath they can while Porthos works his hand over himself, to help ease the way for Aramis.

 

There’s a brief moment where the noise finally dies around them, not even vibrating in their ears, where it’s just the sound of quick breaths and hearts pounding as they look at each other.  This is Aramis’ favourite moment.  The moment of anticipation and want, the moment that drives every other thought far, far from his mind because he can only bring himself to focus on the man leaning over him.  He parts his lips with the slightest of sighs, giving Porthos the sign to go on.  His fingers twist in the bedding while Porthos’ fingers grip at his thigh, and it’s a slow, always too slow, push in until Porthos can’t go any deeper. 

 

The gasp that leaves Aramis’ lips is soundless.  Porthos is always too much and too perfect all at once, and when Aramis shifts beneath him he whimpers, a high sound that sends a shiver all the way through Porthos.  He takes hold of Aramis under his knees, pressing the softest of kisses to one of Aramis’ ankles before pulling out, just to thrust back in.  It is hard and sudden and Aramis chokes back the cry that threatens to bubble up from his throat.  When Porthos does it again, then again, Aramis thinks he might bite through his lip in his attempts to stay quiet. 

 

It’s relentless, rough, but not unkind.  Porthos knows his limits with Aramis, never strays beyond them, but pushes them constantly.  He knows, more, it’s what Aramis _wants_ , what he needs, to feel as though he’s being punished for his sense of misplaced guilt.  Porthos may not understand it, but he can’t help but get off on the idea that Aramis turns to him for this when God can’t help him.

 

Porthos groans, sliding his hands to Aramis’ hips to pull him closer, looking to fill every bit of Aramis that he can.  Beneath him, Aramis is reduced to little more than moans and curses between hard breaths.  Porthos leans forward, the angles of their hips shifting to hit all the right spots, pressing his head to Aramis chest because if he looks at that face too long he knows he won’t last.  He feels the tension beginning to build in Aramis, hears the words spilling from his lips turn to pleas and begging, so he works his hand between their bodies to wrap around Aramis.  The sound he receives in turn is nothing short of relieved, and for a moment everything gets clumsy as Aramis struggles to fuck upwards into Porthos’ hand while Porthos continues to drive deep inside him. 

 

There’s no time to find momentum again, though, as Porthos reaches his climax and spills inside Aramis with a hiss of breath.  Every bit of Aramis is vibrating, and he’s given up his resolve of quietness, and Porthos doesn’t care enough to try and chide him.  He works his hand quickly until Aramis is spilling into his hand and letting obscenely delicious words roll off his tongue and into the darkness. 

 

They stay like that a moment, locked together, until Porthos finds himself able to move again.  With their muscles relaxed and tired, and the mugginess in the air multiplied, neither has the motivation to search out something to clean themselves up with.  Aramis turns over to tuck against Porthos, knowing they’ll wake up sticky and sore and smelling not all that great, but he doesn’t care.  He feels, at least, the sleep he’s been missing begin to wash over him, but even in his daze he can hear Porthos grumbling beside him.

 

“Hate this heat,” Porthos mumbles.  It’s likely Aramis would have hit him, but he’s already asleep before Porthos can finish his complaint.  Satisfied that he’s won, Porthos supposes he can ignore the discomfort for the night, and he drifts off wondering if he can coax a special sort of thank-you out of Aramis in the morning.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Another episode that was just too good a prompt to pass up. It's been a while since I've written sex so I apologize if I'm rusty, but it's likely not going to get better than that. 
> 
> Also, I've decided that I'm going to go back and write pieces for the first two episodes, as well, to make a series out of it. I think that I'm not going to stop being inspired to bang out one-shots, so it makes sense if I just collect them all together. 
> 
> (Also, if you're reading this because you've read Spanish Lullabies, I offer my complete and humble thanks. Knowing people are enjoying what I write is certainly as motivating as the characters themselves. <3)


End file.
